Through the looking glass

She was a poor, misguided child. There was so much torment and pain in her small being. No one believed her, not even I, until it was too late, but circumstances change as do people. I remember the first time I met her. She was a troublesome case, no one wanted to work with her. In her short time at the asylum she had attacked two doctors, refused to speak to three and scared a novice nurse so badly she fainted. Due to my previous success with such cases I was called for and was in London by the end of the week.
The London Asylum was a very large converted manor house, with six floors and a cellar. I entered the large oaken doors and entered what was, once a receiving area, and now a medical reception. From there a young blonde nurse directed me to my office on the fifth floor. After putting my personal items in order I confronted my new patient. Her room was in the cellar where all the dangerous patients were kept. It was a damp, dark place lit only by torches and lanterns despite the breakthrough of electricity. The pungent scent of human waste and death shrouded the cellar, I was quickly becoming aware that in London, when a patient can not be “cured” they were left to wallow in this damp prison of their own filth and insanity.
She was in room 161, it was a chamber of no more that five metres across and ten metres long filled only with a bed made in grey to complement the white of the walls which had slowly browned with age and a small wooden chair. In the corner were a small flush toilet and a small white sink to match it, both surprisingly clean compared to their surroundings.
She was doll-like; perfectly pale smooth skin, touched by the red blush of youth. Flame red hair cascaded halfway down her back in a sea of loose curls, whilst a pair of intelligent, emerald green eyes followed my every movement into the room. Had it not been for her intense, scrutinising gaze and her greying night-dress, one could easily have mistaken her for a life-size porcelain doll.
“Good morning, Miss DeCosta, is it? Marilyn DeCosta?” I was met by only silence and those piercing eyes, which seemed to stare right into my soul, as though assessing motives. I moved the chair closer towards her bed, and held out my hand. The child flinched away in fear,
“There’s no need to be frightened, dear, I’m a doctor, Dr McIntire, and I’m here to help you.” Still, she gave no answer. I looked around the room I noticed crude drawing etching into the walls.
“Do you like draw? I used to be quite the artist myself at your age. We can’t have you drawing on the walls though can we? Let’s make a deal, you answer some of my questions and I’ll organise for you to have supervised use of lead pencils. I could arrange for colours also.” Again I was met with no answer; I got up to leave when suddenly a small, bell like voice piped from the doll sitting on the bed.
“Would I be allowed to draw outside, in the gardens, near the ponds?”
“I’m sure I could arrange that. Are you ready to speak now, dear?” Her eyes suddenly darted to the corner of the room nearest her window. I noticed her eyes widen in fear and her hands grip the sheet.
“No, not today, he’s watching today. It would just anger him”
“Who do you speak of? There is no one in the room. What’s the matter?” Her gazed stayed fixed at that point in the room. I took a step towards her and her gaze met mine full of fear and urgency.
“Not today! Pencils and paper first! Come back tomorrow, not today. Not today.” She began to tremble violently, as though someone was shaking her. I ran to her side and tried to put my hand on her shoulder to calm her. She turned to face me fully and raised her hand to my arms, slashing me with a piece of metal taken from her bed post. As I yelled, she began to scream hysterically. Two orderlies came running into the room to strain and sedate her and I was ushered out and upstairs towards the medic. It was only a small wound, it looked much worse than it really was, but for the rest of that day I could not work. All I could think of were those crazed green eyes, staring at me blankly, as though possessed. 

The next day I returned, arm bandaged and armed with pencils and paper. There she sat as before facing the sink, staring blankly forward. I entered and bought the chair closer to bed so I was facing her.
“Good morning Marilyn, did you sleep well?” As before, I was met with no response.
“Marilyn, I understand yesterday was a bit on an ordeal, but I am willing to put it behind me if you are. I have brought you pencils and paper. If this visit goes well I’ll allow you a supervised trip out side but you must answer my questions. Marilyn…” I was interrupted by the sound of bells chiming
“Mary”
“Excuse me, dear?”
“Mary. I prefer to be called Mary.”
“Alright, Mary.”  I set the pencils and paper down on the bed beside her with a book to lean on. She slowly moved her hand towards them and positioned herself, waiting for inspiration.
“Have you always liked to draw, Mary?”
“Yes, it’s calming. You have control over what you draw, anything can happen in a drawing” As we continued to speak she began to slowly sketch. For over an hour we spoke about art and literature, the entire time she sketched. I found that she was the child of a gypsy man and a midwife, a modest but comfortable living. She was obviously a well educated and intelligent creature, though she had received no formal education, but instead had been taught to read at home by her mother. As I dismissed myself in order to conduct my rounds in the asylum, she handed me her work. It was a near perfect sketch of me in my seat facing her, the girl had talent. She had caught the slight grey creeping in to hair, the singular freckle under my left eye, every minuet detail, even the missing button on my jacket. Over the top in beautiful calligraphy script that would rival that of a 14th century monk were the words: ‘Down the rabbit hole and through the looking glass’.
“Mary what does this mean, down...”
“Don’t say it; he is only blind, not deaf. He can feel us here.”
“Who is this he?” As I spoke, I saw through the corner of my eye a creeping darkness. Shadows like the curling, spindly fingers of childhood villains, reaching towards me, engulfing the room. From the centre of these shadows I saw, but only for a split second the image of a tall figure with tall ears and then it was gone. All the shadows had disappeared. I bid Mary a farewell and left the room, leaving her with the pencils. I took the rest of that day off to nurse myself of the odd humour that had over come me.

The next morning I returned to her again, having recovered fully from my hallucinations after a day of much needed rest. As I entered I saw scattered across the floor papers covered in pencil sketches, pictures of creeping vines and sweeping shadows. Obscene and deformed animals; cats and foxes; looking possessed, as though back from the dead. But the centre figure in all these sketches was the rabbit. It was a huge grey creature, armed with sharp, shear-like teeth and claws, its eyes were stitched closed but it still seemed to stare into your soul from the paper.
I looked over at Mary and there she was staring into the corner of the room, looking more fearful than any one I had ever seen, almost in tears. I moved towards her, this time not reaching out to touch her.
“Mary, are you alright? I’m here to see you; we can go for a stroll around the gardens today.”  She gave no answer, just stared trembling into that corner. Not knowing what else to do, I threw a crumpled piece of paper into the corner breaking what ever illusion she had in her mind. Mary turned her head towards mine at lightening speed. At first her eyes were blank, as though possessed as they had been the day she attacked me, this quickly melted d away and she began to speak.
“Can we leave now?”
“Would you tell me what you were staring at first?”
“Can we leave now?” I decided not to push her and escorted her out of her room and up the stairs, out into the gardens. It was a brilliant day. The sun was shining and all the birds were chirping, a perfect day fro a stroll and a sketch. I even organised with a passing nurse for Mary and I to have lunch outside in the sun.
We spent the day was before talking about art and books, as Mary sketched everything around her; the birds in the trees, the half opened flower blossoms, the frogs in the pond, all the beauty of the natural world. I started to believe that my assessment had been correct; all those months spent in the dark solitude of the dungeons had driven her half mad, I was sure that with regular strolls around the gardens and possible a move into a room with a window and a good view she would be cured.
A cold wind blew as we sat by the pond and a dark humour suddenly took possession of Mary. She looked frightened as she had done in her room and continue to stare into the distance. For a moment I thought I saw the same dark, vine like creatures as I had seen in Mary’s room. I chose to ignore it. Mary, on the other hand, stood and stepped closer to the pond, staring straight at her reflection.
“You like the pond, Mary? Shall I get you a net so you can see the frogs close up?” She gave no answer but I went in search of the grounds creeper for a net.
As I returned to the pond I heard, a loud splash. I ran the rest of the way to see Mary’s head slipping below the surface of the water. I called over a nearby nurse who helped me pull Mary out of the water. As she regained consciousnesses, se looked around herself, as though searching for something, but not finding it her gaze landed in mine.
“Mary, are you alright? What happened? Did you fall?” She stared at me with her eerie green eyes, saying only:
“Down the rabbit hole and through the looking glass.”
Mary was taken to her room, as I tried to find the meaning behind her words. Suddenly I came to a solution. Mary was a young girl, who had never really seen her reflection. She needed a mirror, it was so simple, as she stood staring at her reflection; she had fallen into the pond. That very evening I took a mirror into her room.
“There we go Mary, your very own looking glass!” She stood silently staring at it and again a cold chill came over the room. From every corner shadows crept closer towards us, and in the mirror there seemed to be an image of a dark creature. From the mirror the grotesque sown eyes of Mary’s drawn rabbit stared, grinning manically, its pointed teeth on show. I turned towards Mary and she seemed to be possessed, eyes blank, yet staring directly at me. Her mouth opened and she spoke in a voice that was not her own.
“Good evening, Doctor. Where’s my rabbit hole?” Suddenly she began screaming again hysterically, running towards me as though ready to attack. Luckily outside the door were two nurses ready for such an occurrence. They caught hold of her and sedated her, leaving her on her bed, to sleep through this odd turn.  I went back to my office to muse over what had happened.
The next morning first thing, I went to see Mary. I opened her door, only to see Mary in a pool of her own blood, shard of glass all over the floor. I called for the nurses to try and revive her, but it was all in vain. That night she had woken still in her dark humour and broken the mirror using a shard to cut open both her wrists. She had gone through the looking glass and the following week we laid her to rest, in what to her would have seemed like, a rabbit hole.
After that I could not escape the image of that rabbit. It followed me on my rounds, its blind face boring into my soul. It’s mouth grinning manically at me. I fell into a long period of illness, wishing for it to go, but I knew it wouldn’t. I had discovered to late what Mary’s affliction was, she had been haunted endlessly by this creature. It delved into the deepest parts of your mind, bringing your darkest thoughts to life. Every feeling of loneliness, every moment of self loathing was brought out of the depths of memory to the front of your mind, leaving you unable to function. 
I can’t handle the darkest any longer and I know I can not escape it. The creature follows me everywhere I go. As I stand here by the pond, writing by the light of the moon, the wind blowing violently through the trees, I know how I can be at peace. I must go down the rabbit hole and through the looking glass.